Every day and every year
I practice thinking pass away,
And I among my thoughts still beaver
My future deadness’s death – day.
And where will my fate send deadness?
To tights, to rovings or to waves?
Or, may be, nearby Death Valley
Will not refuse my chilled remains?
And even if it doesn’t matter
For senseless body where to lay
I would prefer anigh dear country
To put my bones and there to stay.
Whether I stroll along the vibrant streets перевод
© Copyright: Анна Хмара, 2004
Свидетельство о публикации №104090401068
Свидетельство о публикации №104090401068
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